Fairies Don't Drink from Teacups
by Draceline
Summary: Harry Dresden, wizard, must survive the most treacherous environment possible: the home of a batty old lady. Winner of the January '14 Monthly challenge at The Maple Bookshelf.


The crazy old bat claimed that she could speak to 'them'. Poppycock. Poppycock and rot, that's what it was.

Oh hells bells. Now I'm channeling Bob. Damn ghost.

Anyway, the lady was insane. She thought that fairies were coming to speak with her. Now, don't get me wrong, occasionally one of the fae takes an interest in a mortal, but this usually happened in a capacity that ended very badly for whatever human is involved. But this nutjob kept saying that the little "angels" that were talking to her were there to help. Hell, when I got to her house, she was having a tea party for the pests.

Tea. Hah.

Everyone who knows anything about the fae knows that they don't drink tea.

They like pizza. I would know; I had bribed a whole army of them into cleaning my apartment. But what this woman didn't seem to realize was that the fae are extremely volatile when something annoys them. Something that this woman was likely doing.

Yes she was insane. But I had my reasons for coming.

I had almost missed the entrance to the front walk. It was obscured within an extremely overgrown garden full of a combination of gargoyles, cherubs, and gnome statues. I got the most unsettling feeling as I walked past them onto the porch; it was like they were watching me. I hated to do it, but I had to look at them through my Wizard's Sight and saw—nothing. They were just garden gnomes, not supernatural creatures. That was actually a little disappointing; if they were creatures there would at least be a reason for chills crawling down my spine. I knocked on the door using the extremely tacky cherub doorknocker.

"Are you Arlene Greymoor?" I asked once the woman answered the door. "I believe I spoke to you on the phone."

"Oh yes. Mister Dresden, was it?" the horribly dressed old woman simpered. She looked like she had to be in her seventies, at least.

"Yes ma'am," I replied, trying not to cringe as the powerful smell of too many cats wafted out of her house. I was going to have to wash my coat, later, before my resident cat Mister got ideas about marking his territory.

She smiled in a way that, on any other little old lady, would have been sweet, but on her, it was almost terrifying. She looked like a dragon who had just dug up the motherlode.

"Well come in, dear," she beckoned. I swallowed nervously and followed her inside. I felt extremely vulnerable without my staff, but one couldn't exactly carry a large stick around when you are trying to be incognito.

I glanced around, scoping out the living space that I was being drawn into. The place looked like something out of the 1960's edition of the 'Irish Imports' catalog. Well, at least I wouldn't have to explain away a whole slew of destroyed electronic equipment. Even her television was old fashioned, being an old console model from the 1960's.

"Sit down, dear. Sit, sit, sit." She shooed me toward a chaise lounge in the living room. She then bustled off, saying that she was going to make some tea.

Looking around I noticed a rather unsettling portrait above the hearth. It looked to be from the Victorian era, but the subject was of a very hairy, mustached man wearing pink striped womens underwear. I shuddered. I would never be able to scrub that image from my mind.

After several minutes of me attempting to not have a staring contest with the portrait over the fireplace (it was like a train wreck—you know it's wrong, but you just can't look away), the old woman came back with a tray with tea and crackers.

"Oh, I see you've noticed my newest acquisition," said the woman, smiling proudly—and possibly a bit lewdly—up at the disturbing piece of 'art.' "I just bought that painting at an auction. In certain lights, it almost looks as though he has left the frame. Sometimes I wonder if the fairies have spirited him away," she giggled.

I cringed a little. "It's, uh, lovely, Mrs. Greymoor. I had some—"

"It's Miss Greymoor, if you please, Mister Dresden. I have never been married. Although, if you are asking…" she trailed off, smiling in what I'm sure she thought was a flirtatious way. It was really rather creepy.

"Right. Miss Greymoor," I corrected. "I had some questions which I believe you may be able to answer for me." I tried to smile charmingly. I think I probably looked more like an infant with gas. The smell in here was really starting to get to me.

"Oh really?" she asked curiously.

"Uh, yeah. First thing: do you know anything about the recent string of vandalisms throughout your neighborhood? The culprits have a rather strange M.O."

"Oh, no. I didn't. I don't get out as often as I should like. What have they been doing?" she frowned for the first time. I needed to play it safe.

"Well, for starters, they have been filling all of the gardens with overgrown plants. It seems like a rather expensive hobby, if you ask me." I didn't mention the fact that the plants had in fact already been there and had simply had their growth severely accelerated—if there was a group of rogue fae behind this, I didn't want to alert them to the fact that I was on to them.

She pursed her lips. "Now that is strange. That sounds like a joke that my little friends might play on someone who was irritating them."

"Your friends, Miss Greymoor?" I asked.

"Why, the garden fairies, of course," the dragon-lady smiled again.

And simply by that answer I knew that this case could get very bad, very soon.

Just then my cell phone rang. It was one of those cheap pay-as-you-go mobile phones, nothing fancy, but I had found it was the only one that would last for more than a week within 100 feet of me.

I excused myself, Miss Dragon said, "Oh go ahead," and I answered. It was Murphy.

"Hey Murph. What's up?"

"Harry, I need you down at the station, now," she said. Murphy sounded worried. "There is something you need to see. You're alright with clowns, right?"

I raised an eyebrow, though she couldn't see it. "Uh, yeah. Why?"

"Well, it looks as if we have a psychotic killer clown on the loose," she said, " and he's looking for anyone odd."

Great. Two cases at once. "I'll be right there," I said, and hung up. The phone sparked. Alright, I would be there after I stopped at the corner store to replace my phone—again. I turned back to the old lady. "I'm sorry, Miss Greymoor, but I have to go. Something has come up."

She stood and led me to the door. "I do hope I can be of more help to you, Mister Dresden."

I nodded. "I'll be sure to contact you if I have any more questions." I stepped outside. Oh, fresh air, how I missed thee! "Oh, and Miss Greymoor?"

"Yes?"

"Don't go outside tonight. There are clowns on the prowl."

 _(Final word count: 1,207)_

* * *

 _A/N: Hello all. I was digging_ _through my computer while trying to free up space when I realized that I hadn't posted this lovely one-shot. Or at least that's what it was meant to be. I may continue it eventually. It really depends on whether the right inspiration comes along._

 _I digress._

 _This was originally a challenge piece for a contest at the lovely archive "The Maple Bookshelf." We had a 500 word minimum requirement (which I exceeded handily) and we were given a list of prompts to work with. I decided to use more than one. The list was as follows:_

1\. You purchase a painting of a Victorian man at an auction. One night as you get up you notice that the man in the painting is gone.

2\. The mirror doesn't lie. Unfortunately neither do my friends.

3\. The crazy old bat claimed that she could speak to 'them'. Poppycock. Poppycock and rot, that's what it was. But I had my reasons for coming.

4\. It wasn't the first time I'd caught him wearing her undergarments. And hopefully it wouldn't be the last.

5\. The kitten fled, strawberry-scented double rainbows trailing all the way. It fell into a plot-hole, then was surrounded. 'All of your base are belong to us.'

6\. Don't go out. Clowns are on the prowl.

 _See if you can't figure out for yourselves which prompts I used and how I used them. Some bits are obvious; others, not so much._


End file.
